William Dietz - The Seeds of Man

The rain stopped during the night, a klaxon was heard, and the slaves had no choice but to roll out of their bunks. Then it was time to visit one of the latrines and shuffle off to breakfast. It was, Tre discovered, exactly like the dinner he had eaten the evening before. But the mixture was hot, filling, and reasonably nutritious.

Once the meal was over, Tre and Knife followed the rest down the spiral road to the bottom of the pit. The methane flame made a roaring sound as they selected their picks and went to work. Sir was a constant presence. And anytime he felt one of the slaves was slacking, his twelve-foot-long bullwhip would reach out to nip a neck, arm, or leg. That was nasty, but even worse was the knowledge that the pit boss was going to murder someone that day.

There were other hazards as well. Just before what Tre estimated to be noon, the people in the green sector broke into a pocket of gas. It had a rotten egg smell and was clearly flammable, because something set it off. The explosion killed two slaves.

Their fire-blackened bodies were still in the process of being hauled away when the survivors were forced to resume working. “It’s over,” one of the techies told them. “Get back to work.”

Later, at about one or two o’clock, Tre heard the gunshot that everyone had been waiting for. This time it was one of the sorters, a sickly girl of ten or twelve who had been coughing up blood. That was when Tre realized the truth. In addition to intimidating the slaves, the pit boss was culling the herd, killing those who were too sick to be effective. That meant it was important to look strong no matter what the truth of the matter might be.

The following day was punctuated by a cave-in that claimed a life in the yellow sector, and Tre’s team uncovered a cluster of fifty-gallon drums. They were oozing black goo, some of which was turning orange by the time a smoke-spewing tractor trundled down the spiral road and moved in to remove the containers.

But as the days passed, they began to blur and lost their individual identities, so that murders, explosions, and cave-ins no longer seemed unusual. Meanwhile, both Tre and Knife continued to spread rumors, or tried to, although it was difficult to tell if they were making progress.

After what might have been three weeks, Tre was working to recover a toaster oven when a rusty canister of spray paint came loose. Judging from the weight of it, the container was at least half-full, so Tre tucked the cylinder into the waistband of his pants and spent the rest of the day trying to keep it there.

Later, as the slaves were lining up for dinner, Tre found a dead spot. A place where the guards up in the towers couldn’t see him. That was when he spray-painted the words “Crow is coming” on a wall. There was no such thing as privacy, so other slaves saw him do it, and when one of them asked about Crow, Tre had a ready answer. “Crow is justice. Crow is freedom. Be ready.” During the days that followed, Tre continued to surreptiously spray paint walls and floors until the canister was empty.

Then came the moment he’d been waiting for, when a man with long, stringy hair confronted him in the pit. “Watch for the Crow,” the man said. “He’s a-coming, and when he gets here, he’ll be riding a horse that snorts fire.”

Tre battled to keep a straight face. “That’s right, brother. Watch the sky. And when Crow arrives, attack the guards.”

Tre returned to work after that and was still at it when the man with the stringy hair returned ten minutes later. He was accompanied by two techies. Both had guns drawn. “That’s the one,” Stringy Hair said as he pointed a filthy finger at Tre. “Take him into custody.”

That was the moment when Tre realized that the whisper campaign was not only working—but working so well that the people in charge knew about it. He made a conscious decision not to look at Knife. The other man was powerless to help him. All he could do was play dumb and hope for the best. “ Why?” he demanded. “What did I do?”

None of the techies bothered to answer. They used a combination of shoves and proddings to direct him up the spiral road and past the shed where the pit boss sat on a stool. They ordered Tre to bear right. A path took them away from the pit and toward a concrete building. Guards stood to either side of the front doors and watched impassively as Stringy Hair led Tre inside.

Tre had never seen anything like the inside of the building. The lobby was two stories high and decorated with paintings, sculptures, and well-cared-for plants. Soft music filled the air and the concrete floor had been buffed to a soft glow. Stringy Hair paused to let the others catch up with him before leading them up a broad flight of stairs to the floor above. A hallway led through a gallery of black-and-white photos to a pair of wooden doors. Guards stood to either side of them, and one raised a hand.

That brought the entire group to a halt. Tre’s heart was beating like a trip-hammer by then, his palms were damp, and he felt light-headed. Stick to your story, Tre thought. That’s your only chance.

The waiting came to an end as the doors opened to allow a well-dressed woman to leave. She seemed to look through Tre as if he wasn’t there. One of the techies gave Tre a shove, and he stumbled forward. The office was huge, and an enormous window took up most of one wall. A man was standing in front of it with his back to the room. Judging from the way his arms were positioned, he was holding a pair of binoculars. Was he looking at the pit? Yes, that made sense.

Stringy Hair brought the party to a stop, where it was forced to wait until the man turned to look at them. He had short brown hair, a small, almost feminine nose, and even features. A pair of rectangular sunglasses hid his eyes. The frames were pink, while his clothing was unrelievedly black. Gold earrings dangled from both ears and his manner was unexpectedly polite. “My name is Jeremy Kimble. And you are?”

Tre saw no reason to lie. “Tre Ocho.”

“Okay, Tre,” Kimble said evenly. “Here’s the situation… Rumors about someone or something called the Crow are circulating among the slaves. And according to Ellis here, you know what’s going on. So who is the Crow?”

Tre was frightened and allowed it to show. “I don’t know.”

“I don’t believe you,” Kimble said evenly as he placed the binoculars on the desk next to a large bolt cutter. It had red handles and appeared to be new. “You told Ellis here to watch the sky—and attack the guards. Why would you say something like that if you don’t know the answer?”

“I h-h-heard it—that’s all. From another slave.”

“Who?” Kimble wanted to know. “Who told you such things? Tell me and spare yourself a great deal of pain.”

“A man,” Tre responded. “I d-d-don’t know his name.”

Kimble held the bolt cutter up for Tre to look at. “Have you seen one of these before?”

Tre’s mouth felt dry. It was difficult to speak. “Yes, yes I have.”

“Then you know what it can do. Grab his right arm.”

Tre tried to run, but the guards were ready. And judging from the speed with which they took control of him, Tre knew they’d done it before. “Now,” Kimble said, “tell me everything you know or I will remove one of your fingers.”

Tre thought about Crow, about Freak and all the others. He wanted to tell Kimble, but if he did, his friends would ride into a trap. Then they would die and any hope of something better would die with them. He felt light-headed, promised himself that he wouldn’t scream, and gave the only answer he could. “I don’t know.”

Ellis took hold of Tre’s little finger and pulled it straight out. Kimble opened the bolt cutters and took a step forward. Tre felt metal touch his skin. “Tell me.”